I surrender out loud, give voice to another of the writhing in my stomach, this new and developing affliction. I hesitate over the words and the humiliation heats my face. I notice that every time I express this, my voice takes on a different, lilting tone. The pitch, high and strained because I feel bankrupt and embarrassed that I don't have it all together - as if she couldn't look around and observe for herself that this is the case.
Anxiety piled high on anxiety and there seems to be no alleviation. I offer up the revelation because I'm imploring help but I'm left with the residue of exposure, sticking.
Oh, to be someone else or somewhere else. Sometimes I want this. Other times I am happy with the way God made me. But it's in the wreckage and weaknesses that I cringe. I want quick deliverance.
But what then would I be, if only a perfect version of myself? I wouldn't need. I wouldn't cry out. How would I pine for a savior?
It's the dilapidated state that brings me to my knees. And on my knees is the best place to be. I find the Holy and the healing and the grace. And then compassion for all others who silently or loudly suffer.
Physical illness I've surmised may be easier to bear than any other. It's less affected by blame. And I'd like to point my finger at my weak legs as the cause, the ailment that brings on all other shakiness rather than my betraying brain. But maybe it's one in the same. This body mind. Mind of body.
It doesn't matter because it's not mine. If I can look at it that way and give it over, saying "Do what you will with all this, with all this stubbornness, this nervousness, this unsanctificated skin I walk around in"
And He does and if I direct my thoughts toward Him, He directs them back His own way.
"...those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. ...they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not faint." Isaiah 40:30-31